


A Poised Imposter

by Felfolk



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: 2P Hetalia, Angst, Emotional Manipulation, Gen, Headcanon, Jealousy, Manipulation, No Romance, No Sex, Suspense
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-19
Updated: 2018-11-19
Packaged: 2019-08-25 21:45:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16668889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Felfolk/pseuds/Felfolk
Summary: England has always garnered the attention of many throughout history, it's certainly no surprise given the infamous empire of his prime. However, not all attention is welcome when it comes from a place of spite and jealousy. This is a lesson that England had long since learned well, however he never thought he'd be both the victim and the malefactor at once, nor how far it would push him.





	1. The Intrusion

##  The Intrusion

  


He warmed his chilled hands with his breath, crisp March air chilling him through his coat. The rain was light, melting whatever slush was left from the February snows on the London streets. Only the headlights of the occasional car kept him company on the desolate side streets on his way home, the meeting had run late into the night. Yet another day wasted on useless political trifle. He stuffed his hands back in his pockets, wondering why he ever opted to walk to his business house from the conference building, longing for his bed back at the Buckingham. A dead phone, empty wallet, and a house key warmed against his hands. It wasn’t his fault the car broke down, though he would admit is was in fact his fault that he left his credit card at home, leaving it out of his wallet by pure accident after the previous night’s online purchase; An elegant bone china tea set that he had had his eye on for some time now. A purchase he could only justify by the sale price. 

Distracted by his thoughts of purchase and home, he barely noticed the man walking down the sidewalk towards him until they ran into each other, both apologizing fervently, but briefly considering the time. The man gave him a smile from under his tipped hat and continued, hunched with what England could only assume was the cold. It wasn’t until he straightened his lapels and put his hands back into his coat that he realized his wallet was now gone. He snapped his head back and watched the man rush around the corner, he sprinted after him full tilt. He may not have cash, but his various forms of identification were all in the leather casing, and those were most certainly of importance. He rounded the corner to find the street empty and slowed his steps, attempting to catch his breath after his sudden burst of energy. He crossed the opening of an alley, peering into the darkness for a moment as he searched for his perpetrator from the lamplit streets. Before he could process the shadows a hand ripped through them and dragged him in by the collar, slamming him against the wall, pain shooting up the wrist crushed against the brick. He tried to shout, but was halted by a firm hand clamping it over his mouth. He struggled against it but slipped on the wet ground, his eyes wide with adrenaline as he took in his assailant who grinned down at him with icy blue eyes in the dim light.

“Well, well, well! Look what I’ve caught tonight. Arthur Kirkland, yes?” He held the ID in the fingers clamped over his mouth, comparing picture to person with rapid eyes before looking satisfied. England nodded under the hand, attempting to nurse his wrist as best as he can and feeling for a break. “Mhm, yes. Wonderful. I’ve been looking for you for quite some time! Oh yes I have!” His voice is incredibly cheerful and yet sickeningly familiar, but he couldn’t place it. He drops the ID into his pocket and doesn't replace the hand. “Now then, are we going to cooperate, love?” 

“Do you know who I am?” Of course he does, he just called him by name. He doesn't struggle however, preferring to save his life over his dignity. The man chuckles and nods.

“Well of course I do. Or I’d hope so after stalking you for weeks.” A swift knife reveals itself from his grey coat and into the man’s hand. He holds it to England’s throat with a wicked grin. “Now then, you going to cooperate or shall I knock some sense into you, hmm?”

“What? Put the knife down! You’re an absolute lunatic!” His body began to react out of fear, kicking at the imposing man and grabbing at the knife with his dominant hand, or rather the one with an injured wrist. Before he could even make sense of the sharp pain, a newfound one struck him as the knife stabbed into his thigh, eliciting a scream from England's throat. The strawberry blonde hair glittered in warm light of the lamps as the man dropped him and stooped down to his level, stepping on his cheek. 

“Ah ah ah!” It's hellishly sweet. “That's not proper behaviour in the least, my dear.” He tried desperately scamper to his feet with the stab wound and wrist that had it not been broken before, certainly was with that fall. An attempt to call out was immediately met with a pointed dress shoes to the ribs, his perpetrator reacting with impeccable speed. 

“Shut. It.” Now that was familiar. The dulcet tones gone and replaced with bitter, hardened words. This was his voice. His realization must've shown, because the man's smile grew somehow ever wider. 

“Who the bloody hell..?” He coughs out the words, trying to regain his air and composure.

“I believe we’ve already met. Now hush, my dear.” The sweet tones return and are the last that he hears as the butt of the knife swings into his temple. 

  


***

  


The clock ticked on mercilessly, the nations seated per usual. Germany tapped his foot as he awaited the arrival of the few stragglers. As tense as the air was, at least it was quiet. Canada was certainly thankful for that. He had arrived on time, if not early, for once. Before all of the chaos and arguments could ensue. China and Japan spoke quietly on the side, France sipped his coffee, and the Italy brothers sit halfway between the end of the table and next to Germany as a compromise. Oddly enough, their hosting nation had not arrived yet.

“Where is everyone?” As if on cue, America and Prussia waltzed on in with a few others in tow. 

“Ha… Sorry we're late.” Spain slipped into a seat next to France and the two immediately started gossiping about last night's exploits. America plopped himself right down next to Canada and chugged on a Gatorade. 

“Well finally, now where is Arthur?” The entering nation's shrugged at the mention, a few nursing their own hangover cures. “It's not like we can start without him. Someone get a hold of him. I don't want to spend anymore time than necessary in this building.”

“Those British bars are sick, dude!” America leaned over, loudly whispering to Canada. 

“They're called pubs, Al.” He rolled his eyes and trained them back on the door of the conference room. It felt like forever, but eventually they swung open and in walked a familiar green clad man, sipping tea from a thermos. He yawned and wordlessly took his seat, not seeming to notice that it was directly next to France.

“Danke Gott, now resuming from yesterday…” Germany turned his back to them and towards the projected presentation, not awaiting or wanting an explanation for the extensive tardiness of the usually timely nation. France pestered him making a few obvious intimations, which were of course quickly declined by the man. Canada took a long sip of coffee as he floated between listening to America and his two previous guardians. England was particularly docile today, enough so that France eventually gave up out of boredom.

“And then he threw him over the counter. It was heckin’ crazy!” 

“Mhm, that's great Al.” America's recounting of a multiple decade ago bar fight was probably the least interesting thing aside from Germany’s ramblings about economics. It appeared to Canada that England felt the same as he spooned out the teabag of his now steeped drink with a sigh. He was an elegant man, and held himself in such a manner that briefly reminded Canada of the once great empire that ruled on both land and sea. 

“Any input? I am feeling as though I am speaking with a wall.”

“You were for the most part.” France’s comment earned him a few chuckles and even a smirk from the Briton beside him. “Perhaps we break and continue this parley after a bit of wine, non?” Germany sighed, waving his hand in dismissal.

“Not like I can stop you. We will take a fifteen minute break.  _ Fifteen _ , you hear?” The nations each showed varying degrees of acknowledgement as they filed out of the room. England stood and stretched before picking up his tea and continuing out into the break area. Canada turned to ask America a question, but his other half was already long gone. He sighed, walking out of the conference room. The sight was typical, Spain fawned over the Italy’s much to one's distaste, France floated about between the nations, and a few of the louder ones had taken to the snack table to brag and boast. Oddly enough, England had placed himself on the outskirts of the room, appearing to just observe his fellow nations with a bored expression plastered on his face. The sweeping green eyes rested on Canada for a long moment before moving back into the motions with a sip from his thermos. The stare wasn't particularly uninviting, so he decided to give the lonely man a bit of company should he be noticed.

“Hey, Arthur. What's up?” He stood near him, hoping to be noticed and maybe create some form of conversation.

“Oh, Matthew what can I help you with?” He didn't turn to face him, but he seemed interested enough. At least he wasn't ignoring the younger nation. Canada let out a small sigh of relief.

“Oh, nothing. Just wanted to know if you were okay. You were pretty late, eh?” He gave England a smile and received a curt nod back.

“I had an awful night, couldn't fall asleep till late. The car broke down, my phone died, a man even tried to mug me I swear to God. I certainly showed him what for.” He smirked and took a sip of tea, looking at Canada. “I do admit they did give me a hard time, must be getting old.”

“You were mugged? Arthur, you need to be more careful, honestly. You look awful.” This was true, the bags under his eyes seemed to show through a hint of concealer most likely used to hide them. Despite how tired he looked, his eyes were their usual lively and wise green.

“I'm fine, Matthew. Honest.” Despite his reassuring words, England's worn out expression gave Canada his answer of agreement. “I wish this were over. I just want to go back to Buckingham and sleep.” He yawned and took another longer sip of tea. Even in this exhausted state, Canada could admit that England still carried an air of importance and wisdom to him, as someone his age might. It had been a long time since Canada had spoken with his former mentor and close friend. He couldn't help but revel in it for a few moments, peacefully watching the nations alongside England. France was ‘harassing’ America, commenting on his fashion and something about Parisian fashion outclassing New Yorker fashion. England sighed and handed Canada his tea.

“Would you hold this for a moment, Matthew?”

“Yeah, sure.” He watched England swoop in to separate the two, telling them they both looked terrible and that London would forever be the best fashion capital of the world in a snarky manner. Canada smirked at his technical family and took a sip of England's tea. Earl Grey, a favourite of the Briton. Germany’s voice eventually cut through the room and one by one each of the nations filed back into the conference.

  


***

  


“Hey, Arthur.” 

England turned around to see Canada quickly walking towards him after the meeting.

“You forgot your tea.” Canada handed him the thermos with a smile.

“Ah, yes. Thank you, Matthew. I really must be going, lots of paperwork to finish on the new legislation.” Canada seemed almost disappointed at this, looking away nervously. “Whatever is the matter?” 

“I was just wondering if maybe I could come over and cook tonight? It's been a long time since we've done anything like it, and there's really no better time, right?” The younger nation looked hopeful in a way that England could hardly bring himself to turn down. He sighed and agreed, letting the excitement come to fruition.

“No earlier and no later than five o’ clock, you hear?” Canada nodded in response and rushed off to catch his cab. Wonderful, a night to himself doused in the company of another. At least it was just Canada. He walked out of the building into the drizzle, a valet pulling his now repaired car to the front of the building. He thanked the woman and got in, feeling nice and cozy in his warmed leather seat. Three forty-five. He pulled out of the parking lot and took the back way through the industrial area, doing his best to stay awake. After last night, a car accident was the last thing he needed. He halted at a red light and watched the rain patter on his windshield, only to be briskly removed by a sweep of his wipers. The flick of a switch brought on the welcome noise of the radio, reporting on a few crashes due in part to the lousy weather. 

“Following the recent murder of Elizabeth Swanson…” He listened carefully as he continued his drive home, this was important to him. “...In other news, authorities have been unable to trace back any DNA samples on the body, making this week two without any answers on the events of February 23rd. If you have any information regarding-” He shut off the car, stepping out and rushing up to his house to stay as dry as possible. He locked the door behind him and stripped off his forest green suit jacket, hanging it next to his keys. The clock quietly ticked onwards reading ‘four o’ seven’, forty-three minutes. He walked into his kitchen, looking around at the mess of the rarely used facilities in an attempt to figure out where to start making his home presentable. He started by loading up his dishwasher, and decided he could probably hoover the place last. He wiped down a few counters and organized his paperwork, carrying it back to his study in large heaps before dropping it onto his desk for later. He opened the door to the bathroom and noticed the overflowing garbage, deciding to take it out now before the rain could get any worse. A bottle of dye fell out of the trash, he scooped it up quickly, shoving it back into the bag. He hummed as he dumped the garbage into the bin, observing the streets of the gated community. London wasn't his favourite place, but it was certainly special. He couldn't help but miss his old green pastures before he came up with industrialization. The good old days, where he conquered left right and centre and had everyone else do his work for him. Not much he could do about it now. He stepped back inside, searching for the hoover to finish up his work. 

It couldn't be found in any of the closets or rooms on the ground floor, so he moved on to searching the cellar. He opened the door and made his move downstairs, flicking on the lights and pattering down the stairs in his dress shoes. He checked the various nooks and crannies, finding nothing with a frown. He sighed and turned on the light of the cellar’s back room, looking at the rather pathetic sight before him. He paid it no mind and walked over the unconscious man before grabbing the broom and continuing on to finish his chores.


	2. The Opposition

##  The Opposition

 

Canada stood outside the door, watching the clock on his phone. He’d been there for five minutes already, but it wasn’t quite time. As soon as the hour changed, he rang the doorbell. Moments later, the door creaked open and a kind smile greeted him and welcomed him in from the damp outside. Canada thanked him and handed off his coat, removing his wet runners and walking after the Briton into the kitchen. The inviting and warm smell of tea surrounded him as he opened the door. The eyes lurked on him a moment more before they moved to the kitchen. The room was sweet with the scent of pastry, England appearing to be quite at home in his plush sweater vest and looser slacks. The two exchanged friendly banter for a short time before an oven timer went off, the elder pulling some scones from the oven. 

“I wasn’t aware you baked.” He said this mostly jokingly, but still interested in the apparent new hobby of the man, as well as the fact that the hobby indeed smelled and looked edible.

“Oh hardly, Matthew.” England chuckled. “I’ve been home merely an hour. I already had these from the store. I read somewhere that baking them again with a bit of butter makes them absolutely delectable.” He rambled on briefly about his scones as he sided them with raspberries from the fridge and put some water on to boil. Canada smiled to himself as he sorted out a bag of veggies he had bought, along with some fresh salmon. He sliced up the filets and prepped the glaze as England prepared and offered Canada a cup of rose tea and a scone. 

“Don’t you think it’s a bit late for tea?”

“I missed tea time for the conference. Better late than never.” 

“Isn’t it four o’ clock or something? You could’ve had it while you were waiting.”

England shook his head and sighed. “There was far too much to do, and far too little time to do it.” He stirred his amber drink pensively for a moment before appearing to come to a conclusion somewhere deep within the woodwork. “Besides, Matthew. I’d much rather spend it in your company.” Canada took a bite of scone as he worked, it was certainly good. The warmth of the stove made the soft patter of rain on the window distant, the gentle ticking of wall clock a welcome sound in the peaceful room. They conversed wordlessly, a mutual understanding saying all that needed to be said. A placid state of being that neither could ever admit to longing for, yet both most definitely did.  It was only interrupted by the clacking of plates as Canada dished up the food in due time. 

“Thank you.” He graciously accepted the meal and continued to eat it only when Canada had taken his seat. “Matthew? Why on Earth did you want to come over tonight? Not that I’m regretting it of course…” He took another bite of the glazed salmon.

“You seemed lonely.” 

England appeared to pause for a moment. “Whatever do you mean by that?” Though he still ate, those green eyes rested on him, though seeming gentle in nature, were almost arduous to maintain a gaze with. He could help but stumble over his words at the sudden intensity of the man’s gaze. It was… Unsettling. Something wasn’t quite right about it. About  _ him _ . 

“I don’t know.”

“Right.”

And just like that, the room returned to peace, though the air somewhat cooler than it had been before. The smaller nation’s gaze melted to one of concern, any semblance of the defensive nature melting away with the icy tension. They continued to eat, England’s gaze settling on him once more as Canada came to finish his plate.

“Are you quite alright? You look pale.” He reached out and touched Canada’s forehead, his fingertips familiarly calloused from his long dead years of seamanship and fieldwork. Canada nodded, ducking out from under the thin fingers. “Do you need to lay down? I have a spare bedroom, Matthew. Jet-lag is dreadful, I know.” 

“That might be it, yeah. It’s fine Arthur. It’s been a lot of fun, we really need to do this more often. I can sleep in the hotel room.” He stood up and took his dishes to the sink. 

“Well, my door is always open to you, Matthew. Swing by whenever you like, you hear? No, it’s fine. I’ll take care of these.” Canada was stopped before he could begin to help clear the rest of the table. “You made the food. The least I can do is clean up the place, my place.” Matthew sighed and yawned. He hadn’t realized how tired he was until England had brought it up. It would be best to rest himself. 

“Alright, Arthur. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Of course, Matthew. I hope the weather is kind to you.” It didn’t appear that it would be such, the dark clouds hanging low in the air. A storm was brewing between the brief periods of downpour. “Perhaps you’ll be able to outspeed it if you try hard enough.” Canada nodded and watched the grim skies. He pulled his coat on over his shoulders and squished into his run-down shoes, not bothering to untie the laces. He couldn’t help but chuckle at the expression of sheer distaste on England’s sharper features. “You and your brother, honestly. You’d think I’d raised you with a bit more decency.” The man sighed and shook his head with a reminiscing smile.

“Guess not.” The two exchanged a chuckle and Canada opened the door, only to be met with a chilled wind, damp air, and a lack of a car. “Aw rats, I forgot. I need a cab.”

“Not at all, love. I’ll take you back.” He turned to see that England was already pulling a dress coat over his attire and picking his keys off of their respective hook. “The cabs will run you straight into traffic in weather like this.”

“Thank you, Arthur.”

 

***

 

His eyes snapped open and watched the room spin for a moment. Where was he? The cement was cold and stiffening, his muscles and bones aching for use. Thunder rolled on outside, the dim pipes seeming to shake with the heavenly crashes. What happened? He could hardly remember. He hissed as dried blood ripped his pant leg from his skin. Was he tied up? He shimmied his wrists in the ropes, it had been a long time since he could remember being in a situation like this. Which World War was it again? The first or the second? It didn’t matter. He quickly recognized the knot and slowly began to work his hands out of it. An eternity passed before he managed to loosen the cinch, another eternity or so passing him by until he finally managed to loose his hands from his bonds. He struggled to stand, his leg all but groaning as he pulled himself up on the exposed pipes. Good God, where was he? He limped out of the furnace room. Was this his house? Yes. He made his way to the stairs by memory, not wanting to waste time or energy finding the light switch. Nineteen stairs exactly. Nineteen painful stairs to drag his leg up. As soon as he reached the door, he threw it open.

The warm light washed over him, flooding his eyes all too quickly. He shut them for a moment to readjust his senses. What happened? Why was he brought home? He slowly opened his eyes again to see a man standing before him. 

“You took your time. Making me wait, no less.” A strong foot planted itself against his chest and abruptly drove him back down the stairs in a less than graceful fashion. The man took to the first step and slammed the door behind him, plunging them both into darkness. “Of course I should have expected a man like yourself to be able to slip bonds, but I had really hoped to find you awake in ropes. Would have made this far easier to deal with.” 

He scurried back on the floor, trying to regain his footing as the calm, deadly sound of dress shoes on wood slowly descended towards him in the pitch. 

“Who are you?” He pulled himself up a wall and slowly traced around the outside, not making a sound after he posed his question. Storage was on the other side, and so were a pair of old hedge clippers, an snarky unconventional gift from France. Well, perhaps not as unconventional as they might seem. 

“I’m England.”

Now that right there was a lie.  _ He _ was England. He kept his mouth shut, not wanting to give away his position, but he needed to keep him talking. From the sound of it, he was on the other side of the dark room, equally silent in his footsteps if he was moving at all. 

“No, you’re not.”

“Try me, love.”

A firm hand grabbed at his collar and slammed him against the wall, winding him as he was thrown to the floor in an all too familiar turn of events.

“Found you! You never learn, do you?” 

It took him longer than he had hoped to recover from it, but once he had he scrambled out from under him and made a run for the storage room, knowing full well that his perpetrator would think he was going for the stairs. As soon as he passed them he stopped and stalked silently to the ajar door of the room, sliding on inside and feeling around for the shears, a blade, anything. Where did he keep his old cutlass? Oh right, above his bed. How useful.

“I’m getting impatient, Arthur. Come along and behave yourself.” That was much too close for his liking. He finally grabbed the handle of something and pulled it off its shelf as silently as he could. France’s stupid gift had come through. He slowly made his way out of the room towards the main cellar, leg aching for a break, beginning to bleed once more. He held the shears as steadily as he could in front of him, forcing his hands not to shake from the cold and nerves and coursed through him. “Arthur, it would do you well to cooperate.” He thrusted the shears forwards into the dark, sinking them into something by the feel of it. Yet there was no sound, nor could he pull them back.

“God damn it-”

“Such foul language.” The hot breath poured across his ear, the man keeping a firm grip on his blade. “I’ll let it slide for the gift, however.” He could almost hear that twisted smile. He could almost feel it. He took a wild punch, managing land a hit and shoving the perpetrator off of him. Where were the stairs? He kept a finger on the wall as he attempted to find them, disoriented by the adrenaline and pain. The shears metallic ring sounded as they were stabbed into the wall not six inches behind him. The stairs. He ran up and threw open the door, blinding himself with the light. He quickly shut it again as the man trudged up the steps behind him, shears in one hand with a grin plastered on his face. He pulled the nearby coffee table against it, jamming the handle. His breathing more laboured than he could ever remember it being, but he wasn’t going to rest until every piece of furniture was up against this door.

  
  



End file.
